Battle Worn (RusPrus)
by Minidonkey Obsessed
Summary: Battle Worn is a Historical based story, post WWII. Gilbert, a German Army captain gets captured by a Soviet Commander, Ivan, after the Battle of Berlin. Ivan get's obsessive over his new prisoner and decides to spent his time after the War ends by Making Gilberts life a living hell for his entertainment as he takes the German into his household. [RusPrus] (I don't own cover photo)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Though they are not set as countries in this story. This is a Human AU.**

 **Warnings: This story is written historically accurate to the best of the writers ability. Research can only get you so far, so there will be some historical inaccuracies.  
Extra warnings are that this is done during WWII, so there will be Nazi and Soviets. If this is a trigger dont read.  
This dark story will also have war, psychological trauma, torture, insults of nationality, and... lot of other trigger things, so if you easily get offended please dont read it. Im serious. **

**Note: This story was written after a RP that was done. Please review cause i would love to hear what people think, but do not just bash for bashing sake, this is a** ** _RP_** **and really wasnt meant to be posted but i stole their story. Love you Captain!  
(Captain let me transpose their story and said it was fine to post it)**

Battle Worn

Chapter One ~~~~~ Taken from Home ~~~~~

If you had asked him only a year ago if he'd ever dreamed it would come to this, Gilbert might have laughed. They'd advanced so far into the eastern front at the beginning, and so quickly. And now - so much, lost just as fast or faster, desperate troops retreating west to surrender to the Americans, to the British, and the ones left gradually realizing that they might be fighting to their deaths. That, or to an eventual surrender to the Soviets, which, if the stories were true, was hardly better.

Gilbert's knuckles were white around his rifle, already out of ammo, as he peered out the shattered window at the advancing Soviet troops. He'd seen boys fighting on the streets, scarcely teenagers; men who looked too old to be holding a weapon; even women with guns in their hands, desperate to hold off the enemy for a few more hours. Everyone's ammunition had run out by now in their makeshift fortification, and apart from the few soldiers there - survivors, most of them, and all of them wounded, who'd retreated as far as Berlin with their utterly decimated units - nearly everyone in the fortified building was a civilian, and many weren't of age to be fighting. Gilbert could hardly walk himself - the bullet wound in his calf made every step excruciating, and his pants leg was soaked with blood by now, although he hardly felt the pain anymore; his whole body felt numb. He was the only one, among the few soldiers left there, who'd been an officer, and as such he was the closest thing they had to a commander.

A commander who could, at that moment, have told them to keep fighting with knives and empty guns until they were all gunned down where they stood, or try to give them some last chance at life as the Soviets approached, and he heard a shout, in accented German, to drop their weapons and come out with his hands up. He was acutely aware of the gun slipping through his unsteady fingers as he pushed himself into a standing position, swaying slightly on his feet and then straightening. He would wear that dirty, bloodied uniform proudly to the end, if they meant to kill him, and he didn't have any intention of limping out like a weakling in front of the soldier.

"Lower your weapons," he told the others in a low voice.

It didn't take long for the order to be obeyed, half the remaining fighters looking almost relieved that it was over, the other half utterly stony-faced. He stepped out of the building first, the others hanging back, and approached the soldier at the head of the Soviet union with his hands up. They must have looked almost comical, he thought numbly, a bedraggled bunch like that playing at being a proper military unit in front of the organized Soviet troops.

"They are all unarmed, there is no more ammunition."

Ivan, the Soviet commander, walked towards the completely exposed German as he was followed by a troop of men all aiming their weapons at the opposing side. Finally, the fighting had ceased and the enemy decided to surrender. Surely this would be the battle to end the war. However, in some odd sinister way, Ivan was enjoying it. Especially this moment, The tattered people coming out of their hiding holes with their hands in the air, their clothes looking more like some blanket they found in the mud. Ivan's uniform was not in the best condition either but his looked more like he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty than looking like someone beat him up.

"Guten tag" Ivan greeted in a purposely slaughtered German, the thickly-accented German made Gilbert cringe a little. He spoke very little Russian himself, beyond the few useful words and phrases contained in the German-Russian phrasebook the soldiers who'd faced the Soviet soldiers in Russia had been issued.

"So you've finally decided to give up your pathetic attempt at saving yourself?" Ivan rubbed in, walking up to Gilbert. This was, of course, rather risky but at this moment Ivan didn't care. He was going to take this victory and play with it a little. Gilbert should have been relieved to discover that he was at least being understood, but that butchered pronunciation, coupled with the smirk on the other officer's face, made his blood boil. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down and behave himself. There was nothing to be gained by getting the other man angry, and everything, at this point, to lose - mainly, the lives of the civilians still behind him, trembling like leaves at the weapons aimed at them. They had never volunteered for this; they had never faced enemy guns before, or the possibility of immediate death. They had looked to him to protect them, and he was failing them. He let Ivan continue.

"Unless, of course, you would like some more ammunition? You can keep playing this game you play vainly. You already lost, but I can let you make sure you never play again. Your choice."

Ivan held out Nagant M1895 with the barrel facing himself and the handle facing Gilbert. The pistol was, of course, unloaded, but Gilbert didn't need to know that. If he took the gun, Ivan would order his men to kill everyone surrendering, if Gilbert refused, They would be taken prisoner.

Gilbert wasn't sure what the Soviet was playing at, though, and his eyes dropped to the gun being offered him and then lifted to the man's face, confused, and - he would never have admitted it, but he couldn't hide it entirely - frightened. It was tempting - for a moment, almost too tempting. He could take the gun and shoot the officer in the chest. It would be satisfying for just a moment, knowing that he had taken out one more Soviet before he was inevitably shot down in retribution, but the civilians behind him, who had looked to them as their leader, would, without a doubt, be killed immediately afterwards.

Maybe it wasn't the offer of one last shot at the enemy, though; maybe it was an opportunity to end his own life. I can let you make sure you never play again. That, at least, he was determined to turn down; he told himself that it was the coward's way out, had told himself that many times before, but truly, he was as afraid to die as any of them. Years of fighting had never entirely prepared him for the inevitability that he might not survive the war. He shook his head, hands still raised and kept away from his sides, fists clenched tightly to try and prevent them from shaking. There was blood running down his injured leg by now; he could feel it.

"Please let the others go," he responded, in a voice that, thankfully, came out steady. "They have done nothing, they're civilians, they have no weapons. I swear they won't trouble you again if you let them leave."

Ivan just stood there for a short moment, smirking at Gilbert. Gilbert relinquished the gun without protest, even if his fingers itched to reach for it again, raise it and fire between the other man's eyes, one last act of resistance and defiance before he was shot himself.

"Smart man." Ivan finally answered, taking back then offering and looking at it a moment before making a quick movement and firing the gun at the German. Gilbert regretted his decision to give it up, as that same gun was lifted, aimed at him, and before Gilbert fully understood what was happening, he heard the click as the trigger was pulled, and the realization sank in that the weapon had been empty the whole time. He exhaled shakily, stepping backwards unsteadily and feeling his injured leg protest the movement.

"Just had to make sure you truly gave up. Truly abandoned all hope of winning anymore." Ivan chided as he walked around Gilbert. Once Ivan walked completely around him, he leaned in close to him and gripped his chin harshly.

"Truly gave up any dignity." He muttered harshly through a smirk at Gilbert. The German soldier gritted his teeth, but didn't pull away as his chin was gripped, fingers digging in to his skin hard enough to bruise. He could feel his cheeks heat with anger and humiliation, and his hands were still trembling slightly.

As soon as Ivan pulled away he shouted orders at his troops to round everyone up and bring the trucks. He wanted all the civilians brought to one building to be put on a census and anybody in military uniforms to be loaded on the trucks.

"Cooperate and no harm will come to you." The Soviet soldiers shouted as they advanced. None of the civilians were protesting, at this point, white-faced and silent as they were rounded up and counted; several of them were looking to Gilbert, as their de facto leader, and, unable to do much more than watch, he held himself straight and upright as much as he could, trying not to look afraid and focusing, instead, on the Soviet commander. Ivan stayed in front of Gilbert as another Soviet came and handcuffed him.

"Yes, sir," the cuffed man responded, voice rather tense. As long as the others were still right there, it felt only prudent to try and cooperate, even if the respectful address tasted sour in his mouth.

"How about this, Nazi." Ivan spoke that words harshly, "since you were one to come forth and confront me, I give special treatment. You get own van. It'll go to special place." Ivan chuckled.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"That's very gracious of you, I'm sure I'll enjoy it as well."

Gilbert, despite it all it was hard to entirely keep the faint mockery out of his voice, or from his face, the bitter smile that twisted his lips humorlessly.

Ivan sneered at Gilbert's response. It wasn't as much fun when they play along with sarcastic confidence. Ivan liked it better when his victims responded in fear and humiliation, but if this one was going to play along then very well. Ivan was going to make it fun.

As the trucks rolled in, Soviets unloaded from them to secure the perimeter. Cheering could be heard from all around as the Soviets celebrated their victory. Ivan smiled and placed an arm around Gilbert.

"You hear that, little mouse? That's the sound of your defeat. No doubt this loss for you will be the victory for the allies." He spoke to him in a mocking way, putting on him a considerable amount on weight to make it difficult for him to walk.

The sounds of cheering and celebratory shouts in German made Gilbert's blood boil, although he tried to keep his face neutral, refusing to let the others see how much it affected him unless he had no other choice. He couldn't entirely help his reaction, though, when the Soviet commander stepped over to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders that might, under different circumstances, have felt almost affectionate; he tensed, flinching away for a moment, and then the grip tightened and he stumbled back into position. The man was putting a significant amount of weight on him at this point, which, coupled with his cuffed hands and injured leg, made it nearly impossible to continue moving forward.

"Let go of me," Gilbert retorted, voice low, some of the confidence gone from his voice – it was difficult to speak without letting the pain of trying to walk under the strain creep into his voice.

"Just think. You'll be the reason your country lost. At least you'll be praised as the person who finally let the war end. Well, at least the memory of you will." He chuckled before letting him go as other soldiers forced him into the back of a ZIS-5 truck.

Nearly hitting his head against the side as he was shoved in. Gilbert picked himself up off the floor as best as he could manage, making it up to his knees; his leg wouldn't allow much more than that.

"Wait," he managed.

"Hope your cozy in there. It's a long way home." Ivan chuckled.

Gilbert had no idea if he'd get any answer at all, let along a truthful one, but perhaps at least a little more information could still be obtained, one less thing to agonize over during the journey by truck.

"Where are they taking me?"

Ivan blatantly ignored the Germans request to let him go, mentally chucking to himself how funny it was that this German thought he had any authority to give such command.

The Soviet commander simply smiled at Gilbert when he pleaded to wait, thinking it was cute how pathetic he looked cuffed and on his knees in the back of a truck ready to be shipped off to someplace he probably never heard of.

"I thought you would enjoy visiting camp? Don't worry. It's not as bad as your camp. This one will be much. more. fun."

Ivan's smile spoke more sinister than it had anything else.

"So sit back. Enjoy ride and try not to get too excited." He chuckled before waving his hand to order the doors closed. That was hardly an answer, Gilbert had hoped he might get a location, at least, and perhaps even some idea of what might happen to him when he reached his final destination, but the latter had been particularly optimistic, and in the end, the Soviet's words hardly gave him any information at all. A POW camp, he guessed - which, if the Soviets' reputation held true, might have been a few tents set up outdoors or a proper compound, but which in any case was unlikely to be pleasant. He didn't ask any further questions, though; something about the mocking look on the Soviet commander's face shut his mouth before he could say anything else, and he fell silent and turned his face away as the door was closed. The back of the truck was almost completely dark besides a few bullet holes throughout the sides. After lying in the back of the truck for a moment, heart hammering, Gilbert forced himself to get up and crawl over to one of the holes to look out, dragging his injured leg to avoid hurting it any further, the movement awkward with his cuffed hands. From that angle, there was very little to see, except more Soviet soldiers.

Just to add a final touch to his terrorizing, Ivan banged the metal sides with his fists as if he were a child banging on the glass of a fish tank. Gilbert was quickly beginning to get nervous, and the sudden banging on the metal side of the truck, hard enough to force him back away from the bullet hole, genuinely scared him before he realized what it had been. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm down, closing his eyes and huddling on the floor of the truck while he waited for it to move. Ivan had a bit of business to finish up before he could leave.

Gilbert was waiting a long time. Several more times, he got up to try and look out, without much more success. He heard several gunshots, the noise making him flinch; more than once, someone cried out. The truck Gilbert was in wasn't even started until roughly 6 hours later. The time before, all sorts of people talking, yelling, some cheering, even a few gun shots here and there; other vehicles moving around the truck, and unfortunately some crying out could be heard. Once the truck Gilbert was in moved immediately, not even being particularly gentle, the German was a nervous wreck by this time, the jolting start to send Gilbert sliding across the floor and hitting hard into the truck back. There were several other starts and stops, most of them uncomfortably hard, and he was bruised up within a few hours, but the truck didn't stop again. He'd lost track of time quickly, but at the very least, the faint amount of light coming through the bullet holes fading told him that it was night by now. The truck drove, and drove. For what seemed like forever.

Gilbert hadn't managed to get any sleep; unable to really catch himself when the truck turned sharply or jolted to a halt, he'd knocked into the sides of the truck repeatedly and was bruised and aching within hours, and curled into a ball to try and protect himself by the time the truck finally stopped altogether. It was pitch-black in the back by now; it must have been well into the night, no light coming in through the bullet holes in the side, and Gilbert waited, anxious and restless.

Only until Several hours into the night did the truck finally start to slow down, Making a few stops, a couple of turns; giving enough familiar movement of being in a base or camp. Finally it had stopped completely. Soviet voices yelled around the truck, giving orders; dozens of footsteps and marching could be heard.

Finally, the latches of the truck door was unlocked and upon the doors opening, a blinding spot light met Gilbert from the outside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor the characters. Even if this is Human Au, I do not own them, they belong to their owner.**

 **Note: Please remember this is a WWII based story, so somethings in this my be a trigger. You have been warned.**

Chapter two

The latches of the truck door were unlocked and upon the doors opening, a blinding spotlight met Gilbert from the outside. The light striking his eyes after so long in the darkness was almost painful, and he squinted out of the truck to try and make out the figures of the soldiers there, eyes not yet adjusted by the time they climbed into the truck. Two men climbed in, grabbing his forearms and dragging him out of the back. Lucky they didn't throw him out, but instead passed him down to another two men that held him upright, still in front of the spotlight. His legs were stiff and aching after so long without moving them, and he nearly collapsed when he was pulled up to his feet, stumbling to get his footing as he was pulled upright again.  
As the two soldiers held Gilbert up, another searched his person, checking for anything he might have on him. Unbuttoning his clothes to his bare chest, checking every layer of clothing. Patting down his pants, checking his shoes, and as the soldier did so, he removed anything that wasn't clothing. Any buttons or patches, watches, credentials, pictures, medi-pack. If Gilbert had anything, it was removed.  
The night air was cold, and Gilbert was already chilly from blood loss. The hands searching him felt icy as they searched inside his clothing. They removed anything and everything from his person, the Soviet still holding him upright while he shivered and tried to turn his face from the spotlight shining blindingly into his eyes. There wasn't much; a mostly-empty pack of cigarettes in one pocket, a small penknife in another, and the medals off his clothing. The Iron Cross at his throat and the combat medal and wound badge pinned to his uniform jacket. His dog tags were removed as well, and his watch. He allowed that much without protest, despite cringing a little when the medals were taken away, but he did almost argue for a moment when they discovered the faded family photo in his jacket pocket and removed that as well, eyes following it with something close to desperation.  
After they had finished searching him, they dragged him to a close-by building with Ivan leading them in front. The place was dimly lit as they went through the hallways, passed other soldiers and even prisoners, bringing him to a closed off room. The room had no windows and only one light hanging over a medical bed. Around were medical instruments that made the place look like either an operating room or a torture room. Ivan had the soldier dragging Gilbert hoist him onto the bed and without another word to the poor German, left. Leaving him in there by himself.  
They removed the handcuffs, his wrists were bruised and red beneath the metal, leaving before Gilbert could try and speak, or voice any of the hundred questions still in his mind - not least of all, whether or not he could get his photo back, for they didn't return any of the items after they'd finished searching him.  
Then the door was closed, and he gave up on trying to call through the heavy metal. He explored the cell briefly, looking over the medical tools with distinct discomfort, then turned away again, limping over to the bed and curling up. Pulling the thin blanket over himself, and tried to sleep.  
Enough hours passed that one could guess it was probably morning. Gilbert had never been quite so grateful for the sheer exhaustion that let him have at least a few hours of sleep that night. He hadn't slept well, though, and he was still sore and aching when he awoke in the morning. Sitting up in bed, blinking blearily when the door was open and a tray was placed on a stool-like table that was next to the door. On it was a bowl of...something that was supposed to resemble some kind of thick soup, a cup of vodka, and a piece of bread, that was probably, safe to say, more like a block of wood than bread. After the plate was placed, the door was closed again. Here in the windowless cell, he didn't have much sense of how much time had passed, or of what time in the day it was. He wasn't even at all sure how long he'd slept, or what time he'd arrived here. With an effort, he forced himself out of bed and retrieved the tray placed on the table by the door. Porridge, maybe, or soup. A cup of what he'd thought was water, and nearly choked on when he took a too-large gulp, and a chunk of bread, mostly stale by now. He was hungry enough that he ate all of it, dipping the hard bread into the soup to soften it a little and eating carefully over the tray so that the breadcrumbs - and there were a lot of them, stale as the loaf was - wouldn't fall on the ground and be lost. He ate the rest of the crumbs as well, and then sipped slowly at the vodka until all of that was gone too. It didn't entirely assuage his thirst, but it did warm him up, and he was able to fall asleep a little more peacefully once it was all finished, and the dishes set back neatly on the tray on the table by the door again.

Several hours later the doors opened once again and a man was practically pushed into the room.  
"No need to be so violent."  
The person complained in his native tongue to the Soviet that pushed him in, though said in vain since the door was already closed.  
The native tongue was German, but his pronunciation of it hinted that he was probably Austrian. This man was wearing clothes obviously given to each of the prisoners showing that he too was a prisoner of this place. The man looked around, squinting his eyes. He had just come from outside and his eyes were still adjusting from being used to the bright outside. Once he spotted the man, he spoke again.  
"My name is Roderich Edelstein. I was a field medic and am a prisoner like you. The Soviets sent me in here to give you medical attention."  
He introduced himself without moving from the door. Roderich still couldn't tell exactly who was was in the room with him, all he was told that it was a German soldier that Ivan wanted to be made healthy again.  
"You were sent to care for me?" he repeated, a bit taken aback.  
That was nice of them, he supposed, though right now he wanted the company more than anything else. "Come in if you want, I'm not going to bite you." He sat up straighter, watching the other warily. He did speak good German, although that wasn't any sort of indication of his sympathies, or a guarantee he wasn't also working for the Soviets.  
"It's just my leg, I was shot... I'm Gilbert, Gilbert Beilschmidt."  
Gilbert Beilschmidt. Interesting. Roderich could have sworn he heard that name before, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He pushed it to the back of his mind, deciding at this moment that it wasn't important and proceeding with his duties was top priority.  
"You're lucky, you know."  
Roderich spoke as he started to look around at the instruments to find what he needed, only hoping that it all would be provided.  
"The Soviets don't really have people treated. Once someone gets injured, they leave them and if they get injured passed being able to work, they get taken away or even just shot on the spot. Someone must really fancy you," he chatted.  
Lucky was about the last thing Gilbert was feeling at the moment, but he nodded. It was good to keep the positive in mind, he supposed, even if the positives were things as small as not being taken out and shot for an injury, and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to know what was meant by someone fancying him. Whatever it meant, he had a feeling he would find out soon enough. His thoughts returned to the Soviet officer he'd surrendered to. If he was the one ensuring that Gilbert was kept alive, it was hard to say what his intentions were, and difficult for Gilbert to convince himself that those intentions weren't malicious.  
"Thanks," he mumbled. "I hope so."  
Roderich found enough medical supplies to get started. "I can't find anything to cut the cloth with so you'll have to remove your pants or rip it above the wound so I can treat it." He requested, looking expectantly at Gilbert. It was difficult to struggle out of his pants, his leg not wanting to bend without an effort, but he managed it, pushing them down until the Austrian could get to the wound. It looked bad, even now; the bullet had never been removed, and the injury had hardly been cleaned properly. The skin around it looking bruised and ugly beneath the cloth tied over it. He gestured at it, rather pointlessly, as if to indicate that this was the main injury that needed treating. The other bruises were visible on his leg as he pulled his pants down further, some of them fairly dark.  
As Roderich looked at Gilbert, he could tell this German man was completely beaten up and battered. He couldn't tell if it was from someone or just from the war. Roderich could only imagine what battles were still going on within the month or so he had been here. If they were winning or still being pushed back, but from the battle, Roderich was taken from, the war wasn't looking good. Roderich's eyes softened with his thoughts.  
"How is it looking out there?" He asked with genuine concern, "the last thing I knew was the surrendering of my country's capital. I was taken prisoner when Vienna fell and I haven't heard anything since."  
At the question, Gilbert looked up, slightly uncomfortable. Roderich had been a prisoner since the fall of Vienna, and he'd had no information; that meant there was little chance Gilbert would get any information either. "It's... it's over, now. Or if it's not, it will be soon. The Soviets have taken Berlin by now."  
Roderich paused a moment when he had heard that Berlin was taken as well.  
"Berlin." He breathed out with a sigh.  
He took a cloth and wet it with alcohol and started to clean what he could around Gilbert wound.  
"If it's not over now, it will be. The fall of Berlin, it would take a miracle to recover from that. With our loss, it's almost guaranteed that we won't get out of here. I'm going to die here, aren't I."  
Roderich spoke sorrowfully, at least his work attending to Gilbert's wound was not hindered by his sad mood. Though tending to his wound properly would be a bit difficult. He didn't have anything to take down the swelling and nothing with a blade, not even a scalpel, to help remove the bullet or puss build up if there was any, which was a high possibility with how atrocious the wound looked. The best thing he found were tweezers.  
"I suggest you lay back and relax. Removing the bullet is going to hurt more than it should." He warned, trying to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the imminent fate of being stuck in a prison from losing the war. He grabbed a tourniquet and fastened it above Gilbert's wound to make sure that if he had damaged the wound further, he wouldn't bleed too much more.  
"Try not to make to much noise." He added before he started to clean the wound itself and examine exactly how far in the bullet might be.  
Gilbert stiffened when the alcohol-soaked rag was pressed to the wound, inhaling sharply and pressing his lips together. That had hurt more than he'd anticipated, and he did his best to ignore it and to focus on the other's words instead. They were hardly comforting, granted; he supposed he couldn't really blame the other man for having a dismal outlook after so long kept here, and no escape or end in the foreseeable future. There would be no recovering after the fall of Berlin; he knew that.  
For all he knew, Germany had already surrendered; once the Soviet commander returned, he would ask, he decided. There was nothing to lose by asking when he had nothing to begin with; the worst the man could do was refuse him information, or punish him for asking, and the latter didn't worry him much. He'd been through enough already, and endured it in silence - even if that resolve was faltering a little as the antiseptic stung and burned in the raw skin. God, he hoped there wasn't any infection there; the last thing he needed was fever and infection on top of everything else.  
He pushed those thoughts away and lay down on his back obediently, staring up at the gray concrete ceiling and trying to focus on something other than his leg. The ceiling was dull, nondescript; there was nothing there to draw his attention away from the sickening sensation of the other prodding at and examining the wound. He was tempted to beg the man to just leave the bullet in, but it would have to come out sooner or later. Deep breaths. He reached up to press one hand over his own mouth, eyes closed, breathing slowly through his nose. It would be over soon.  
"Maybe -" he managed, rather faintly, uncovering his mouth for a moment to try and speak; talking was a distraction, at least.  
"Maybe they'll let you go eventually - if you were a doctor or something and you help them." He inhaled slowly and then let the breath out again shakily; he was beginning to feel dizzy. "Especially if you weren't a soldier... they might be more generous, right?"  
"I don't want to make your morale any worse than it probably is, but I've been here long enough to know that chances of leaving are only high if your dead. And I'm going to be honest with you. I'm not even a doctor. Before the war, I was a musician, but I was conscripted and being a medic was the only position I could choose that didn't involve being a direct soldier. Fear not though, I've been doing it long enough to know what I'm doing." Roderick reassured.  
'I'm not even a doctor' was about the last thing Gilbert wanted to hear, under the circumstances, except perhaps that they would both probably be here until they died, but he tried not to think about it too hard, focusing on gripping handfuls of the covers to steady himself while Roderick poked around in the wound. After the Austrian had located the bullet and cleaned the swollen area on Gilberts leg enough, he used a tool to open the wound a little more, though doing his best not to rip it, and reached in with the tweezers to grab it. Slipping a few times, but finally getting it out after a minute or so. Gilbert was definitely starting to feel nauseated by now, and the feeling of tweezers poking around in the injury, gripping the bullet once or twice and then slipping out again, was enough to make him reach up with one hand to cover his mouth again, muffling a cry of pain into something nearer a whimper. After the bullet was out, Roderick was quick to pour a saline solution in the wound and wrapping it up tightly to prevent it from bleeding. Gilbert was soaked in sweat and breathing hard by the time the process was over, and shaking like a leaf; he lifted his head to look down at the wrappings and then rested back against his pillow again, exhausted.  
"This isn't a permanent fix. It could be infected so I can't properly close it. If there was any penicillin, I'd say you would need to take that to fight the possibility of infection. I can't do anything for your bruises besides say to go easy. As long as they keep you in here and don't have you do anything, they should heal."  
"I don't care about the bruises," he mumbled. He reached down to pull his pants back up and cover the injury; they were far from clean, torn and bloodied and covered in dust, but it wasn't like he had an alternative.  
"Still..." He trailed off, laughing rather weakly. "Somebody must really fancy me, you said, huh? Maybe I can get some penicillin that way, then. You think they'll have me do anything? Do you know what's going to happen?"  
Roderick used a saline solution damped cloth to clean the blood off his hands since they seemed to be a neglected need of water provided in the medical supplies to clean up. However, Gilbert's question made him sigh.  
"I don't have any idea what's going to happen. Gradually everyone gets too weak to do anything. Only few have been here several years." Roderick looked up at Gilbert. The Austrian's pessimism was beginning to grate on Gilbert's nerves, although he supposed that, by now, it was more accurate to call it practicality - Roderick had, after all, been here far longer than he had, and would doubtless have a more accurate sense of what to expect, given how many prisoners it seemed he had seen come and go since he'd been brought here the first time.  
"I don't know what it means of someone here fancies you. You may get fed more and treated properly, but I don't see why you would just arrive and be favored; or you can be kept alive and healthy just so someone has the joy to torture you more than they already do here. Maybe they want information from you and are using the technique of good treatment to get you to talk. All are just guesses, but either way, it's either a very good thing or a very bad thing." Roderick spoke.  
Maybe it was better to know, Gilbert thought, so he could keep his guard up and not get lured into a false sense of security if they were treating him well in the hopes of getting information - but right now, it felt like ignorance would have been bliss. A very good thing or a very bad thing. That wasn't in the least bit reassuring, and his leg was hurting so much that it was difficult to even think. The dark haired man knew that his guesses probably weren't the best for moral support, but he couldn't think of any other reasons why. Sure some of the prisoners befriended the Soviet soldiers to get a little extra food or knickknacks like cigarettes, medical supplies, or extra blankets; but Roderick had never really seen any other Soviets wanting to keep someone alive to a point of getting a medic to patch them up.  
Roderick sat down against a wall and curled into himself, it was surprisingly cold in the room. The German watched the Austrian settle himself against the wall, not moving himself to get up from his reclining position. He was still feeling very dizzy. A shower sounded nice just then, even if it would be unpleasant trying to undress with his leg still hurting, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the hot shower he was really craving. He was still so very cold.  
"If you're on the same schedule as everyone else, you'll get to shower soon. They'll give you new clothes. If you shower make sure to keep the wrap on it and change it out once your done. Occasionally you'll need to lay in a way that lets the fluids drain from the wound. That will help it from getting infected if it's not already. You also need to let it air out every time you change the bandage." Roderick informed.  
Relax, Gilbert told himself firmly, stay calm, think straight; he'd been injured before and he'd survived medical treatment with minimal anesthesia before, he would survive it now, and it was best to just be grateful for the unexpected act of mercy on his captors' parts, whatever the ulterior might have been.  
"Keep the wrapping on to shower, then let it air out and wrap it again," he repeated dutifully. "Lay on my side to let it drain sometimes, to prevent infection. Okay, I can do that." He shivered slightly and reached up to grab the blanket, pulling it around his shoulders securely. It helped a little.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hetalia characters nor Hetalia itself.**

 **Note: Trigger warning this is based in WWII so there is Soviet and Nazi references.**

 **Another note: I am getting help on this so I can still work on my other story. So uploads may be faster, I hope.**

Chapter 3

"Keep the wrapping on till I shower, then let it air out and wrap it again," he repeated dutifully.

"Lay on my side to let it drain sometimes, to prevent infection. Okay, I can do that." He shivered slightly and reached up to grab the blanket, pulling it around his shoulders securely. It helped a little.

"Are you staying in here too? Or just waiting until they come back for you?" Gilbert commented, looking at the Austrian. Who then shrugged and looked at the door.

"I guess I just wait. To be honest I'd rather be out there where I'm at least in the sun than in here where it's dreadfully cold." He rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm himself up.

Gilbert smiled lopsidedly at the Austrians words, although there was nothing particularly amusing about it. The cell was cold, although he'd been shivering in the back of the truck while he was brought here, too. Apparently, it was daytime now, and that was good to know, at least some general idea of the time of day to orient himself around. He still had very little sense of how long the truck ride had been, or how long he'd slept. The disorientation was unpleasant, to say the least.

"I guess they don't like me enough to give me a warmer room," he remarked. "Even if they want me to have medical treatment. They don't want me to get soft or something."

The thought shouldn't have entertained him, but there was precious little to find humor in at the moment, and if he tried to think of it as funny, then it was a little less unnerving that he knew absolutely nothing of what the future might hold.

"These Soviets have a tendency to not convey a lot of information about what they want. I don't know if I'm stuck in here or not." Roderick sighed once again. "I suppose we could pass the time with a little small talk," he suggested. "Perhaps that will lighten up the morale. I meant to mention to you, but your name sounds quite familiar. Your hair doesn't happen to be almost white, does it?"

He couldn't really tell from the tattered condition Gilbert was in and the dark room. The tint of the light was rather orange so he could easily mistake Gilbert hair for blond as well. Roderick asked this particular question because he remembered some of the travels he and his father took when he was an apprentice under him and would travel to Germany to perform the arts of music. He remembered staying in a house with a boy with white hair that he didn't really like all too much. This is where Gilbert's name rung a bell and he had to confirm if he just so happen to be locked in a cell with someone he had met before.

The question made Gilbert lift his head up, though, a bit startled.

"My name's familiar? Yeah, it's... it's still almost white." He reached up to run a hand through his hair, dirty now and matted in places; it would be a relief to take a shower and wash it properly. It had darkened a little as he'd gotten older, but it was still a fairly light blond; it had been nearly white, and rather odd-looking when he was a child, and he was aware it was still rather striking-looking. "Have we met before?"

Roderick chuckled at Gilbert question of if they had met before. When Roderick introduced himself he did only say his first name and not his last name.

"My father was a musician like me and when I was young we would stay at your estate when he would travel to play at clubs and concerts. Edelstein. That is my family name. If it rings a bell, it should. If it doesn't, I wouldn't expect anything less." Roderick chucked. "I remember you were a very energetic young boy that couldn't stay in one place. I didn't really like you much, especially when you would try to convince me to play war." Roderick's expression turned from happily reminiscing to a softer, forlorn distant look. "Didn't think that we would ever actually be in one."

It took Gilbert a moment, but when the realization finally sank in, his eyes widened a bit. Roderick. He did remember that name, and "Roderick Edelstein" was definitely familiar. He'd never particularly liked the other boy either; he'd always seemed fussy and excessively prissy, in Gilbert's opinion, and he'd never wanted to play war. Even then, Gilbert had been excited at the thought of being a soldier, ready to sign up the moment he was old enough, and the war had felt almost like a gift, at first. That hadn't lasted, and at the moment, it was hard to look back on his own naïve attitude with anything but shame.

"I didn't like you either. You never wanted to play with me and you were always worried about getting dirty. I... I don't think I recognized you out of context, it feels wrong seeing you as part of a war after all."

Roderick chuckled and managed to smile fondly at Gilbert.

"I didn't really want to be in one either. I was drafted, and unlike playing with you, I couldn't say no. I still don't like to get dirty, but here I've succumbed to far worse things. I spend every day, dreaming that one day I'll have a proper bath, dressed in my comfortable clothing, and sitting at my piano playing the ivories. At first, being in service felt like a dream. Like every day I'd wake up in my home and go about my life, but the longer I'm here the more my old life seems to fade into the memory. But you. You'd always dreamt about going into service, ranking you pins, fighting against the enemy. I wonder, is it anything you'd think it would be?" He asked with genuine curiosity.

Gilbert remained quiet for a moment, simply listening. That was one thing it had taken a very long time to learn, no matter how many times he'd been scolded by his parents for talking too much and interrupting.

"I hope you get that again," he offered quietly, his own voice rather sober. There was a lot he'd grown to miss too, but, like Roderick, so much of life before the war felt like a distant and ill-recalled memory, as if there had never truly been anything, but the war.

"It was what I always wanted, yeah...I signed up as soon as I was old enough. It was the same as I was hoping for...for a little while, I guess. While we were winning." He managed a small smile at that, without any real happiness behind it.

"Not after a while, though. Getting shot hurt a lot more than I thought it would, and losing...That hurt more than I could ever have imagined it would. And I hadn't really considered, growing up, that we might not win whatever war we were fighting, and that a lot of our soldiers and civilians would die along the way."

"I know this sounds wrong, but before I got here, I didn't care who won the war, as long as it was over. Then I came here and I started to think: what went wrong? We were winning so well and then everything fell apart. Losing the war is much worse than I had anticipated and if I knew it was going to be like this, maybe I would have contributed more. I didn't know anything about fighting. I was trained with a weapon, sure. I've seen people die in front of me, but I've never killed anyone. And being here, I can't help but wonder if it was because I couldn't kill that I'm here or even the reason we are losing...lost the war. In Vienna...I gave up so easily. I didn't even try."

Roderick started to sink in the depressing thoughts that can't along with the insane amount of regret he felt, but soon tried to move from that, and looked up at the wounded man again. Gilbert bit his lower lip. It was an attitude he knew many of the other soldiers had shared, the ones who were drafted at least - the ones who had never been idealists and just wanted to go home to their wives and families. It had irritated him then; now, perhaps, it was more understandable or would have been if the war had ended in a less ugly fashion.

"Lots of people went in not wanting to kill anyone," he muttered. "Lots of them didn't. It isn't like one medic could have changed the tide of the war."

"I may not have liked it then, but I'm sure your stubbornness and enthusiasm to always have been the strongest and a major asset to this war. I have no doubt you've saved a lot of lives. I-I wonder. How far did you rank?" Roderick asked, trying to talk about more positive things.

The compliment made Gilbert smile a little, more genuinely this time - it was something he sincerely hoped was true, that he'd made a serious contribution to the war effort and saved at least a few German lives that weren't lost later. Still, he didn't want to talk about the end of the war much, didn't want to talk about the way it had been going, at the end - how they'd been so desperate for soldiers that they'd recruited civilians, the old men, the boys, and the women who'd been ineligible for the draft before. He didn't want to think about the civilians he had been fighting with by the end, about what might have happened to them after he'd been handcuffed and bundled into the back of a truck.

"I was a Hauptsturmführer by the end - a captain," he responded, still with a note of pride in his voice at the words. "It was a pretty good rank, too, for someone of my age."

Rodrick nodded with a slight smile.

"That is impressive for your age. However, just because you are captured in here doesn't make you any less of a captain. You are among some of your own kind. They will respect you for your rank."

Years ago, Rodrick would have never thought he would ever say anything nice to Gilbert. But being here, especially in this cold, dark room, what else could he say. He had already pointed out the things to worry about, the least he could do is balance it out with a little good. It was something of a comfort for Gilbert to hear that he'd get to interact with his own people again to some extent. That he wouldn't merely be left locked alone in a chilly windowless cell until he started to go crazy. He did also brighten up a bit at being told that even now, the rank he had worked so hard for still carried some weight. His thanks was quiet, but that small bit of hope did improve the overall mood in the cell for the next few moments - at least, until the door opened again, and several Soviets entered, two of them hauling Roderick to his feet and practically carrying him out of the cell again, a startled and rather indignant-sounding cry escaping him as he was removed from the cell.

Directly after was Ivan. Completely cleaned up and freshly dressed from what he was on the battlefield. You could almost smell the clean smell of the lard soap on him; Gilbert was all at once acutely aware of his own dirty, bloodied uniform and need of a shower, confronted all at once with the other officer in his neatly pressed and clean clothing.

Ivan walked up to where Gilbert was laying, two soldiers guarding the closed door from the inside. "How was your medic? Did he do a good job? I need to know just in case you need him again. If he did a bad job, I'll get rid of him and get you a new one. I would order one of my medics to fix you up, but my medics don't deserve to work on trash." He chuckled to himself, looking expectantly at Gilbert with a playfully sinister smirk from his sly, but also blunt, insult.

Gilbert struggled into a sitting position, ignoring the protesting stab of pain in his leg.

"He did a good job," he said, in a rather strained voice. He hoped that the apparent concern for his well-being was a good sign, but had to work in order to keep his expression neutral at the next words. Apparently not - though this did confirm what he'd suspected, that it had been the Soviet commander who'd ordered his injuries to be treated. The respectful term tasted bitter on his tongue, but he had to maintain some sort of dignity even here. "Thank you for that, sir."

Ivan chuckled once again. "Oh please. No need for pleasantries. I want to hear what you really think." Ivan challenged. "But that can come later. Can you walk? You stink and I don't need you reeking up the whole place. Tell me, how long has it been since you've had a warm shower? Probably too long judging by the way you smell." Ivan chuckled at his casual insults to Gilbert. "How about, if you can walk, you follow me and I'll let you take shower. And no worry. It won't be like a shower in one of the Nazi camps where, by the end, you die."

Ivan grabbed out a cane that was propped behind one of the tables and offered it to Gilbert. "This might help you move." He smiled. It was almost sweet, but his eyes definitely didn't show innocence.

Gilbert was silent for a moment, watching the Soviet's face to try and figure out just how sincere he was being, whether he ought to actually speak up and be honest about his opinions or just keep quiet and continue doing his best to be respectful. The man looked amused as if all of this was just a big joke - one at Gilbert's expense, no doubt - but it was hard not to perk up a little at the words. A warm shower, then - that sounded wonderful, well worth the trouble it would be to walk much more on his leg, and he frankly didn't remember himself when he'd last had a warm shower; it had been too long since he'd even had a cold one.

Warily, he reached out and took the cane with mumbled thanks, pushing himself up to his feet a little unsteadily. It felt like a knife was being stabbed through his leg when he straightened, but he managed to get to his feet, swaying a bit before catching his balance. He could do this. It wasn't quite as bad as he'd been expecting when he took a step.

"The medic did a good job," he repeated, tone slightly insistent. "I can walk, I can get to the showers."

"Good," Ivan responded almost sharply. "I trust you won't cause any trouble on way." He said as he opened the door and walked out, the soldiers leaving the room only when Gilbert did and following closely behind him, their guns facing to the ground at least.

Outside the room were the two Soviets that had dragged Roderick out. Kneeling with his hands folded behind his head and forehead against the wall, was Rodrick. He was shaking and almost whimpering as the two standing over him had a pistol pointed to his head.

It looked like he was ready to be executed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor the characters.**

 **Warning: This story is RP during End of WW2. so there will be nazi and soviet references, If you don't care for that don't read.**

 **By the way reviews on this story so far would be nice!**

Gilbert nodded in silence as he followed along after Ivan, trying not to lean too much on the cane so he could get used to putting weight on his injured leg. Each step still hurt, but he could manage it. Any thoughts of his own discomfort were entirely driven out of his head at the sight that met him outside the cell: Roderick, kneeling on the ground against the wall. One of the two guards aiming a pistol at his head. For one horrified moment, Gilbert thought he had been taken out of his cell to watch the other man be executed. He stood there in shock, looking between the Soviets and Roderick, lost for any words that would fall on deaf ears - and then, at an order from their commander, the soldiers put the guns away and pulled Roderick to his feet, leading him outside. He followed along shaky-legged and trembling like a leaf.

Gilbert realized that he was shaking as well. His face white as he turned back to look at the Soviet commander. "He was very good," he protested, once he'd managed to find his voice again. He took another step nearer to the other officer, still staring at the door where the soldiers and Roderick had departed. "He - he took good care of my leg, he told me how to take care of it later, even. Please don't hurt him."

Ivan stopped walking and let out a roaring laugh. He turned to Gilbert and ruffled Gilbert's currently dust-colored hair. Gilbert felt his cheeks heat. He'd always despised being laughed at, and now was no different; it was an effort to hold still and not turn away when the other reached out to ruffle his hair, the gesture feeling something between affectionate and condescending.

"You sound just like little child. It's not my decision what happens to him. How well he cares for you and how well you heal will decide what happens to him. I think that fair." He patted Gilbert's cheek, rather hard, before turning again and walking once again. "If you don't hurry, you won't get to shower. You will be showering in my quarters since showers don't run for captives until tomorrow and I can't stand being around you when you smell like dog. Is fitting though." He laughed again, it was almost as though he couldn't help putting an insult in every sentence. "It will be comfortable for you, I think. You should get used to getting good things. You have special purpose."

More than ever, Gilbert was beginning to worry that his own behavior, good or bad, might dictate the fates of some of the others who'd been brought here with him. Perhaps of even Roderick. With that knowledge, it still took an effort not to turn aside, or push the man's hand away when he reached out to pat Gilbert's cheek - or perhaps more accurately, to slap it lightly.

This time he didn't thank him at the mention of the showers. There was so much, still, that he didn't understand, but it was hard to feel any kind of genuine relief at the promise of good things and comfort in the future. Every sentence came with some sort of insult, and the memory of Roderick's pale, tear-streaked face with the gun to the back of his head was still burned freshly into Gilbert's memory.

"What do you mean?" he managed, hurrying a little to catch up so that they were walking close to each other. It still felt like some sort of cruel joke, as if he would find out the punchline when he was least expecting it, and he was determined not to allow himself to be sucked into a false sense of security thanks to the apparent friendliness. "What purpose?"

"You will see when time comes. I don't want to ruin surprise." Ivan chuckled, obviously amused by the fact that Gilbert had no idea what he was talking about. "But before, I need you to be healthy and strong before you can fulfil your purpose. After shower, you will eat and rest.

"When I first brought you in, I thought I would treat you as I do everyone else, but then I thought you might die from that. So, I decided I wanted you alive, well, and healthy. That way it would be much more... Fun." With how often Ivan was chuckling, one would think he had some kind of problem, but he just had a plan that he thought was amusing, especially since Gilbert was clueless about what it was. "So, you will be kept in proper room, so your leg can heal without getting gangrene. How does that sound? Nice warm room, proper medical supply, better meal. Whatever you need, you just let me know, da?"

Gilbert gave the man an unnerved look, but nodded, not wanting to argue just then and far too eager for a hot shower to risk doing anything to lose it. Whatever was intended, the thought of it clearly amused the Soviet commander; he was still laughing as if at some joke he'd just remembered.

Gilbert's face was still rather red, unable to shake the thought that he was the one being laughed at and hating the utter ignorance of what the cause might be. All this information should have come as a relief - a comfortable room, enough food, warmth, and medical treatment. Coming, as it were, on top of everything, Roderick had told him, and of what he'd expected to get as a prisoner and an officer, it was just unsettling him deeply.

"All right," he agreed, uncertainly. He wanted to add in that, no matter what kindness he was shown, he had no intention of cooperating with them or giving away valuable information, but decided against it before the words left his mouth. It was probably for the best that he didn't immediately start arguing. "Thank you, sir, I... That's kind of you." He was quiet for a moment, then spoke up again, more because he was curious about the other officer's name than because he wanted to give away his own or thought they couldn't find it out on their own if they liked. "My name's Beilschmidt, by the way. Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"Oh, you decide to tell me who you are? What a German sounding name. Komandarm Braginski." Ivan replied in return. His rank translating into "commander."

"You know Beilschmidt, with you telling me who you are, I will soon have all the information on you that I could want. Germans really did like keeping papers on everyone, and since now we have access to Berlin and all the stored information there, we will know everything we want to know on anyone who lives in Germany. You're lucky I like you or else I wouldn't be telling you all this." If Ivan was being honest, he had no idea if the documents would be recovered or not, but threatening that he would have any information that he wanted was a nice thing to throw around for a fear factor.

Ivan lead Gilbert through a few doors, some being bolted with major locks and guarded, but the further in the building they got, the less they were locked and the nicer the place started looking. It still wasn't fantastic. Since this was a military operation, it remained practical Compared to where Gilbert had just come from, it was definitely a major step up. Finally, Ivan stopped by a door. "Since we are so far from anywhere, a lot of us live here temporarily so I extend my quarters to you. Shower and hygiene needs are through here. There is fresh towel and new clothes for you. Knock on door when done." Ivan informed, smiling at him and gesturing to the door.

Braginski. That was very Russian-sounding, Gilbert thought, though he didn't voice it. There had been some identifying information on his dog tags, enough that he imagined the Soviets could have found out whatever they liked about him without too much effort, but this new information did make him slightly uneasy. Even if, reasonably, there wasn't much in those files that would be dangerous to him if the Soviets found it out, at least that he could think of right then.

He was quiet, trying, for the time being at least, to listen more than he talked. To try and at least get some idea of the other man's motives, but besides telling Gilbert he liked him, Braginski gave away little else as they moved deeper into the base. It was definitely looking nicer, as they walked forward; still, it was hard for Gilbert to think of anything except how many locked doors and guards must have been between himself and freedom here.

Finally, though, they arrived at the private quarters, and Gilbert only hesitated for a second before nodding his thanks, stepping into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and stripping off his dirty uniform. The water felt amazing on his sore muscles, and it was hard not to stay there for as long as he really wanted. After a couple of minutes of simply allowing the water to wash over him, warming him up, and easing the aches in all his bruises, he went about scrubbing himself thoroughly and washing his hair. He turned off the water again with some reluctance, dried himself off, careful of his leg, and dressed, before stepping over to the door and knocking on it twice.

It was a few moments before the door was opened for him and there Ivan was standing in front of the door waiting, smiling happily at him. "You look much better than before. Smell better, especially. You actually might be able to pass off as handsome." He said as he patted, again more lightly slapped, Gilbert's cheek again. "You must get off leg. Come lay down. We will summon your medic to care for your scraps and wrap leg again now that you are clean." Ivan insisted as he started to lead Gilbert again, always having two soldiers following behind Gilbert.

Gilbert didn't fully understand what the other man meant to accomplish. Whether Braginski genuinely was trying to put him at ease. Or just cheer him up so that he'd be more willing to cooperate and give information. Either way, it had him decidedly on edge now, and this time he did turn away a little when Braginski reached out to lightly slap his cheek, the discomfort all too apparent in his face. He followed after obediently, though, when Braginski led him to another room, expression brightening in spite of himself at the sight of his new quarters.

Ivan led him to a room, not too far, that was a simple sleeping area. It was warmer, to begin with - still with rather damp hair from his shower, Gilbert had been afraid that it would be as chilly as the cell he'd left, but instead it was well-lit and almost cozy, and the bed looked comfortable enough that he was eager to hurry over to it and sit or lie down. He did wish that there was a window, but the air didn't feel quite so still, or the room so stuffy, as the previous cell had.

He wasn't foolish enough to try and leave the room without permission, not when he knew now just how many locked doors he'd have to get through just to leave the base. He was hoping that the bottle next to the pitcher was vodka; he needed to keep his wits about him, to some extent, but at least some alcohol couldn't hurt. It wasn't paradise, but it was definitely comfortable enough.

"You will stay in here until you are well enough for your surprise. You will not leave room or, whoever your guards are, have permission to shoot other leg. you understand, da?"

"Yes, sir," he agreed, rather faintly. He turned to look at Braginski again, trying, once again, to read the other man's face, and figure out just what he was planning here. It would have been pointless to ask, once again, what his "surprise" was meant to be. "I won't go anywhere. Will I... will I just be staying here, then, until I'm healed?"

"Da," Ivan answered in his tongue. "You need rest and strength. I don't want you giving out so easily, now do I?" He said with a chuckle in his voice. His expression still remained entertained. "This is basically luxury compared to any other prison, don't you think? You should enjoy it: no need to wake up early, no need to think about war, no need to think about anything besides resting and healing. I will even do this for you, I will let you eat whenever you want. Doesn't that sound nice." Ivan offered happily. "Your medic will be in shortly, knock on the door if you need anything."

It might have felt almost like a reward, if Braginski hadn't looked so amused as he offered it, still grinning at him in obviously high spirits and laughing when he spoke. It meant staying here with no knowledge of what was going on outside, no information about whether Germany was still fighting or if the war was all but lost now, no anything... not even any idea what the future would bring, or what "surprise" the Soviet had in store for him. He didn't answer except to nod silently in response and crossed over to the bed to sit down once Braginski had turned and left, closing the door behind him. And with that he left, leaving Gilbert the only one in the room for a solid ten minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the human versions of them.**

 **Warning: This is graphic fanfic so there are a good bit of things in this that could be trigger warnings. Abuse, Injures, Nazi and many other things.**

 **Note: Thank you all my readers for being patient, it has been a while to get this next chapter out. The Roleplayers are still going so I am running a bit behind where they are. So there is a lot more to come!**

Chapter 5.

After that time Roderick had come stumbling in, still obviously quite frightened by the whole experience before as he shook while clutching his medical duffle. He was still whimpering and completely at a loss for words. Compared to the freshened up Gilbert, Roderick looked pretty ruffed up.

Gilbert jump as he sat up, seeing Roderick stumble through the door still looking visibly shaken. He quickly moved over to make some space on the bed, indicating where Roderick could sit.

"Sit down," he told him firmly, the words sounding more like an order than a friendly request. "I just need fresh bandages for my leg to replace the wet ones, give them to me and I can wrap them myself. Are you all right? They didn't hurt you, did they?"

It took a minute or two for Roderick to gather enough mind to finally understand what Gilbert had said.

"N-no. I should- I need to do it. If I don't do my given task, they would kill me." He managed out as he sat down, rummaging through his duffle to get the things he needed to properly address Gilbert's need. His hands still trembling as they searched the contents.

"They- they told me it all depended on your word if I did well or not on whether they were going to put a bullet through my head and if I mess up I'm as good as dead." He spoke with shaken words.

"Undo your wound and let it dry a little before I bandage it again. I'm serious though, someone really likes you if they will go through the trouble of killing someone who didn't take proper care of you."

Gilbert watched Roderich fumble through the bag, genuinely unnerved at seeing just how shaken the man seemed; clearly, he hadn't recovered from what might have been an execution, and Gilbert was silently grateful that the bullet had already been removed from the wound, and any more delicate work completed.

"I told them you did well," he said quickly. "I swear, I said I was happy with everything you'd done."

He reached down for the bandages around his leg, unwinding them and propping his leg up a little, tugging up his pants let to allow the wound the chance to air dry. It definitely looked better than it had the previous day, even if he was still not quite sure it wasn't infected.

"I'll... I'll ask him to go easier on you. Tell him I like you or something." He had no idea whether it would work or not, but it was worth a try, and if he did have some sort of power to save the other, to protect Roderick from unnecessary abuse because Braginski seemed to like him, it was only right to try.

"It's... it's the commander, I think, who likes me. I don't know why, but... he seems to want me to be comfortable. Maybe he'll listen to me."

After a few deep breaths, Rodrick final managed to control his shaming a little. He stood up and placed his duffle on the table and the contents from it that he needed besides it.

"I would be careful with that. You haven't even been here that long and he already likes you? I wouldn't trust him. Well, I wouldn't trust anyone even with being here a while anyway. I feel the best solution in my position is to keep my mouth shut and take care of your wounds and hope for the best that they won't 'dispose' of me after you're healthy."

"They had you here long before I arrived," Gilbert offered, an attempt at being comforting, "surely they'll keep you here after I'm gone, it would be stupid to waste a good medic anyway. It isn't like you were brought here just to take care of me." Still, he made a mental note to speak to the commander, to at least try and get the point across that he cared about the well-being of the medic tending to him, and that Roderick was doing a good job. It would benefit no one to have the man as a nervous wreck all the time; briefly, Gilbert imagined a badly shaken Roderick digging into his leg for the stray bullet and cringed involuntarily. It would be worth it for his own sake, as well, if the commander would actually listen to him...

Roderick went and sat on the bed again, even though he wasn't shaking too much, he was still lightheaded and even thinking about moments ago still frightened him.

"Maybe it's worth a shot to convince him. Perhaps using that I have to be in my right mind to tend to your wounds properly will cause him to go easy. Though, no ones really interacted with the commander before. We've only seen him on the walls or towers or somewhere away from the fences and whenever had interacted with anyone, we...we never saw them again."

Just as he was saying this he realizes that it probably wasn't the most comforting thing to hear.

"You're a ray of sunshine as always, aren't you?" He laughed rather weakly, Roderick's words were less than reassuring.

"If you couldn't tell but this is a kind of place where even the rays of the sun feel gloomy." Roderick responded to Gilbert sarcastic remark.

The windowless room was beginning to feel claustrophobic, and Roderick's visible agitation was wearing off on him. Forcibly, he was reminded of the amusement on Braginski's face, his cheerful promise of some surprise in the future and his refusal to give further details or hints.

"I can take care of myself, don't worry about that. Do you know what happened to the civilians who were brought here with me? Are they safe, are they all right?"

Gilberts more serious question about the civilians makes Roderick think.

"It was very late at night when the trucks came. We were all asleep and confined to our bunking houses. I did see a few new faces the next day, but I hadn't a chance to meet anyone before I was taken to you. They could have been civilian or soldier, I really couldn't tell. If you're asking about the women, they are taken to a different place entirely. I've heard of some camps holding both men and women, but this one holds only men." Rodrick answered, definitely much more calm in his voice but not any happier.

"As far as safe, no one is really safe in the enemy hands, especially not in the Soviets hands."

"It's probably good the women aren't being kept here, anyway," Gilbert remarked, an attempt at optimism. "I'll... I'll ask the commander, maybe, what happened to them, next time I see him."

Once again, a lack of any real information; no one seemed sure of what the future might hold for him, or for the civilians, or even whether those others were safe, and those who did have information - Braginski himself, of course, and perhaps the guards as well - weren't saying anything. Maybe he could ask for more information the next time he saw Braginski. Unnerving as he found the commander, he was hugely curious as well, primarily about his own future but about the other man as well, particularly given what Roderick had said about no one really knowing much about him. This was, then, a rather rare opportunity to gain insight that few others had, and after all, their last interaction had gone reasonably well. Even if Braginski had spent most of the time laughing at him, he'd gotten a hot shower, clean clothes, a more comfortable room than he'd had previously.

"Do you think it's all right to wrap my leg again? It feels mostly dry."

Roderick nodded when Gilbert asked if it was ready to wrap his wound again. He stood up and moved over to the desk to grab the things he had taken out, lucky there was a pair of scissors in there unlike last time where there was no blades, so he could cut the bandaged to the length he needed.

"You may want to lay down again. I'm going to see if there is any build up in fluids and try to push it out. It's not going to feel good, but it will prevent infection. There was a morphine syrette in here so that will help with the pain for a few hours." He informed, "in the next day or two, if it looks like it isn't infected I will be able to stitch you up. You need to ask for penicillin to take as well."

As Roderick talked he wetted a swab with iodine and rubbed it on an exposed part of Gilbert's leg, a short distance from the wound, to prepare for the needle, he popped the wire off the syrette to expose the needle, pinched the skin where he had rubbed the iodine, and inserted the needle shallowly in Gilbert's skin to inject the morphine into his leg. After removing the needle, he took the iodine swab again and quickly rubbed the area with applied pressure to help the morphine disperse through his leg.

"There. Let that set for a moment. This should last a few hours so if you need to walk around, it shouldn't hurt as much." Roderick was so glad his hands weren't shaking anymore.

Gilbert watched Roderick take out the things he needed, a bit apprehensive at the sight of the scissors, but it did seem like the other man had calmed down enough, by now, that it wouldn't be dangerous to allow him near the injury again, his hands steadier than they had been. The fact that there had been anything with a blade left in the room interested Gilbert; it wasn't like it would do him much good when the Soviets had weapons, but it was still an unexpected sign of something like trust that he'd been left with anything that might be used as a weapon. Slowly, he complied, resting down on his back with his injured leg extended so that Roderick could work and making a mental note of the request. Penicillin to avoid infection - he'd ask for that if he saw Braginski again, and maybe could bring up Roderick's treatment at the same time. It was worth a try. He made a face at the needle - he'd never been overly fond of injections - but didn't move as Roderick swabbed a patch of skin with iodine, then pinched it to push in the needle and inject the morphine. After the initial prick of the needle, the relief was quicker than he'd expected, a comfortable sense of warmth spreading up his leg from the injection site, and already, the pain was feeling far less severe than before, even as Roderick bent over his leg to swab the injury with iodine again.

"That feels a lot better," he murmured, almost contentedly. He was beginning to feel tired, as well; maybe once Roderick had gone he'd have some peace to just sleep for a little while. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a truly peaceful sleep.

"That's... pretty nice. Thanks."

Roderick only nodded at Gilbert's thanks as grabbed a couple of swabs, cloth, and wrap in preparation of addressing the wound.

"Even with the morphine, you will feel this next part." He warned.

Gilbert nodded, waving a hand dismissively. Morphine or no morphine, he did want the wound to heal, anxious to avoid infection, and if Roderick had any more painful work to do, he was extremely glad there was morphine at hand.

When Gilbert was ready Roderick placed his hands on either side of the wound and firmly pressed down on Gilbert's leg, slowly moving his hands closer to the wound while keeping the pressure to try to see if there was any puss formulation in the wound and to push out anything that might still be contaminating the wound. Keeping pressure with one hand, Roderick cleaned up the blood and fluids that came out and wiped over it with iodine before releasing the pressure entirely.

At first, it was only pressure - and then Roderick's hands pressed nearer to the wound, forcing blood and fluids from the torn skin, and he drew in his breath sharply, forcing himself to exhale more slowly and relax. The pain didn't last long, and he closed his eyes while Roderick wiped more iodine over the injury and bandaged it again securely.

"There. That should do it." He stated as he cleaned up everything.

"It's probably best that you rest now." He suggested.

Roderick went back over to Gilbert after putting everything back into the duffle and started to clean up any scraps or minor cuts Gilbert had on his arms, legs, neck, or face. Cleansing them with iodine left a yellow mark that would go away eventually, but at least he was making sure they wouldn't be a cause of infection either.

It wasn't hurting much, once again, and Gilbert was all too happy to take the advice and rest, not opening his eyes more than once or twice as Roderick turned his attention to the other smaller cuts and scrapes on the rest of his body. There were a number of them; Gilbert opened his eyes a few times to look down at what Roderick was doing, a bit startled once or twice that he'd discovered injuries Gilbert hadn't initially even noticed, far more occupied with the more serious wound in his leg.

He raised a hand to look at the yellow stain over a scrape on his palm, stared at it for a moment, and then let his hand fall to his side again. He was beginning to wish Roderich would just hurry up so that he could sleep already.

"How's my leg?" he managed.

Speaking was more difficult than he'd anticipated with the morphine in his system.

"It's getting better, right?"

Roderick had gotten some tweezers to remove some of the pieces that stick in his minor wounds and diligently worked.

"It's definitely better than when I first saw it. It's still a little swollen but that should go down. It doesn't seem to be infected, and as long as it's taken care of, it should remain that way."

He spoke without looking up from cleaning Gilbert's minor wounds. He figured there was no rush at the moment and would probably be best if he could tell Ivan that all the wounds had been addressed the best way possible. Roderick noticed in Gilbert's voice that he sounded rather sleepy.

That was a reassuring thought for Gilbert, and the comforting information that he was doing better, and healing up, coupled with the wonderful relief of the morphine, was making him almost happy; if he could actually rest for a while and get some proper sleep, then he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to do so, not when he was alone with Roderick right now, and felt relatively safe in the medic's hands now the man had calmed down enough to steady his hands.

"You should sleep. I'll leave once I'm done." He reassured.

He wasn't too comfortable with leaving Gilbert completely exposed and sedated on morphine when Ivan could come in anytime he wanted without Gilbert being aware.

Gilbert nodded tiredly, relieved.

"You sure?" he managed.

"Thanks, I... I'm going to do that."

He lifted his head again to see what Roderick was doing, satisfied himself that the man had everything under control, and rested his head back down again with a soft sigh, closing his eyes again. Within a few minutes, he was asleep.

Roderick had managed to smile at how relaxed Gilbert was getting and only nodded in response once again to let him sleep. He cleaned Gilbert up the best he could: removing any pieces in his skin, placing little bandages over any cuts and scraps that might have still been open, inspected to make sure he didn't have any unseen open injuries on his head within his hair, and even felt his torso to make sure no ribs were broken. Once he was done, Roderick sat quietly in the room for a little while as Gilbert slept. He didn't really want to leave the room since it was much more pleasant in there than it was outside.

Once he was ready to leave, Roderick put everything back in the medical duffle, grabbed the blanket that was folded at the end of the bed and placed it over Gilbert, before knocking on the door to inform the guards he was done. Thankfully they were a little nicer as they led him out this time.

Gilbert was only vaguely aware of Roderick continuing to check him over for further injuries - numerous other cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but thankfully no broken bones and no further serious injuries. He was sleeping deeply by the time Roderick was finished, though, unaware that he'd stayed in the room a little longer.

When he awoke again, the pain slowly returning to his leg, he was alone in the room again, and sat up blearily, rubbing at his eyes to try and force himself to wake up a little more. The room was quiet, almost too quiet, and the windowless walls and locked door were starting to feel claustrophobic again. He'd almost forgotten about the bottle of vodka, though, perking up at the sight of the bottle sitting on the small table in the corner, and after a moment to shift himself carefully to the edge of the bed, he stood and limped over the table to take a swig of the alcohol.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello my readers.

Heavens I am so sorry for not posting anything in so long. I hope you can forgive me. A lot has happened and I would rather leave them private. As for my story Sealands Strong Heart, I WILL finish it. I had promised to finish it, so I will. As for Battle Worn, I am so sorry about that one. I will not be able to finish it, I hate when authors leave their readers hanging with no finish. So I apologize profusely for it. The Role-players who were doing this, I am sadly no longer in contact with due to person reasons. If I could finish it I would. SO again I apologize that it will not be updated anymore. I am not sure if should delete it or not. ( I really don't want to, but that's not fair to you readers to be left hanging) Leave me a comment if you think I should or shouldn't.

With all that sad news, I am happy to say I am thinking about writing another story, one I plan on finishing and updating regularly, after I update my Sealand one. Hetalia maybe an old and dying fandom, it is still one of my favorites. So keep a look out for Sealands Strong Heart update and the start of another story!

Thank you all so much for the support you have shown me and the amazing comments. And thank you all for being patient with me and my lousy update record.

Until next update!

MiniDonkey Obessed


End file.
